


The War

by time_traveling_angel (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, non-slash, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:25:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/time_traveling_angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fanfic of when John is called back to action in Afghanistan, and how Sherlock deals with his blogger's absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The War

The night John left for Afghanistan, Sherlock couldn't sleep. He was so used to hearing the sound of the door closing upstairs at exactly ten o'clock that when the time came and he didn't hear it, he went upstairs to see why.

It wasn't until he reached the doorway that he remembered.

Work became almost dull as the weeks passed. Every now and then, out of habit, he would look up across from him, expecting to see and hear John make a remark about the victim or Sherlock's deductions.

He wasn't there each time.

He received a letter from the army doctor about two months after he had left. It wasn't long, just describing how things were, that he hoped Sherlock was doing well, and that he wished to be back in London soon.

The sooner the better, Sherlock thought for a few seconds before setting the letter down on the mantle, folding it back up neatly.

As more weeks passed, Sherlock soon became used to the sound of quiet. He no longer really listened for John's footsteps coming down the stairs, or the sound of the kettle being put on the stove. He tried to concentrate as best as he could on the work, but every now and then, he'd look over at the laptop John left behind, the lid collecting dust.

He remembered how John would write what had happened on a particular case, and even mentioned a few of the unsolved ones. Even though he had said not to, Sherlock really didn't mean it.

He felt a little lost.

But he didn't know the real meaning of the word until a letter came to him saying that John Watson had died in a bombing about seven months after the army doctor had left. A jeep had been returning to camp and had run over a planted bomb, the wreckage landing upside down and catching fire. Nothing had remained.

A hollow feeling spread through his chest, and Sherlock sank into a chair, folding the letter back up. He sat there for an eternity, staring at nothing as he rested his forehead on his knees.

He was lost without his blogger.

A few days had passed since the letter's arrival, and Sherlock had barely moved from his spot. He had barely slept; the nightmares kept him from dreaming, the image of a jeep exploding in front of him shocking him awake, tears pressuring behind his eyes each time. He didn't move an inch.

That was, until the doorbell rang.

Sherlock could hear Mrs. Hudson walking to the door, and resumed his position, choosing to steadily ignore the feeling of hunger in his stomach. He could go a few more days; it wasn't like he hadn't done it before.

He heard her say something to whoever was at the door, and heard it shut again. Footsteps sounded up the staircase, approaching the flat. Probably Lestrade or Mycroft, coming to once again bother him with their little problems.

The footsteps stopped at the doorway, as if surveying the room.

"I told you, I'm not working right now, I'm—" Sherlock stopped dead when he looked up at the figure before him.

John stood in the doorway, still in his uniform. He had set a bag down next to him, and a small bandage covered a wound on his left hand, but he looked otherwise unharmed.

"From the state of the place I would say yes, you are most definitely not working," John commented as Sherlock rose slowly to his feet.

"You're alive."

"That's probably the most obvious thing you've ever said to me, and yes, I am," John replied, crossing his arms. He looked a little confused at Sherlock's statement.

Sherlock was speechless, for probably the first and last time in his life. He held out the letter to John, who took and read it, his eyes getting a little wide when they reached his name.

"There must've been some kind of list mix up, I was a few miles from there when that happened," John said, looking up at the consulting detective.

Suddenly, Sherlock hugged John, feeling better than he had in the past few days. His friend returned the gesture, and Sherlock finally was able to speak again.

"Welcome home, John."


End file.
